


I Can Not Hold On, I Will Not Let Go

by Harley_N_Joker



Series: WIP Me Into Shape [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Gen, I know I would, I´m upping the ante, Memory Loss, Pre-Star Trek: Into Darkness, Present Tense, WIP, and Khan´s biography, flame me if you feel the desire to, oh yeah, violating the end of Sherlock season two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-23
Updated: 2013-08-23
Packaged: 2017-12-24 10:14:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/938758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harley_N_Joker/pseuds/Harley_N_Joker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every writer, may it be some big named fantasy author or just some low-life trying to feel great by writing cheap porn like me, has to have some scripts hidden in the back his of mind and computer. Scripts he or she may have found great as an idea but lacked the enthusiasm and creativity to write down on paper. Or better, finish to write down on paper.<br/>These are mine and yes, I am such an attention whore that I´ll even upload things I´m partially ashamed of. Namely because, after years refining my skills in this complex, foreign language, I realize how badly a few of them are written.</p><p> </p><p>And the fourth and last for now: Star Trek/Sherlock-crossover!<br/>Violating two fandoms in just one WIP. Isn´t it obviously fascinating?</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Can Not Hold On, I Will Not Let Go

**Author's Note:**

> As you can see from the title this work in progress - and yes, this one is actually progressing and hopefully someday getting it´s own, series-free place in my work collection - is inspired by a song.  
> Breaking Benjamin´s "Hopeless" to be exact and I fully blame Harley for this because she made me search it.
> 
> But Mister Jay, if you´re still working on it why post it already?  
> A very good question, kids. First, there´s my "Seasons Change"-verse which has top-most priority for me. Second, I am not quite sure how to proceed and chances are, even if they are minimal, that I either a) lose interest or b) think it over too hard and lose focus of the important things resulting in me having a crisis and leaving this story to rot.  
> Or c) I want just a tiny bit of approval from someone else, realizing I´m not the only one making connections between Khan and Sherlock other than being played by the same, ungodly hot actor.
> 
> Also beware: Not brit-picked!

When he wakes up he knows it has been a long time since he fell asleep. It isn´t more than a thought, intuition at best, for he cannot see beyond the four naked metal walls surrounding him and the guard standing at the door left to his bed subtly tells him with one look and a shift of his weapon that he best not even consider it.

He shivers despite the weight of several blankets and the elevated room temperature which, he notices with unmasked glee, has to be high enough to make the other man sweat in his black sweat shirt and khaki trousers.

A hospital then; alternatively, and that seems more likely given the security, a base of operation of a party who is altruistic but suspicious enough to care for him under armed supervision or someone who thinks he may have valuable enough information to be kept alive and be lulled into a false sense of security.

It is obvious what he wishes for and even more obvious what he expects but for now there is not much he can do except fighting the side effects hypothermia goes hand in hand with and wondering how he got here in the first place.

 

 

He dreams of snow and water. Cold water. Surrounding him, biting into his face and hands, soaking his clothes, making them heavy as lead and pulling him down into the blackness of the ocean. He knows struggling is futile but tries it anyway only to feel a sharp pull in his right shoulder and harsh rope dig into his wrists and ankles. He is trapped and lost and he will die in a few moments because he cannot resist his lungs’ urge to open his mouth and try to breathe for much longer.

He is afraid.

Not because he´s slowly and painfully suffocating. No, there has always been some kind of certainty he would meet an unnatural death rather than fading away from old age and as mad as that certainty is it somehow warms him now. If someone wants you off the world´s surface then you are doing something right.

He is terrified because there is no one to mourn him when he´s gone.

Not for a second time.

 

 

Two pair of eyes greet him when he comes to himself again still feeling exhausted but much warmer than last time. Two women, both in their late twenties maybe early thirties, one looking at him with distrustful curiosity, the other with fascinated affection.

He deems the brunette warmly smiling at him stupid and boring. Too open in front of a complete stranger who could easily use her obvious emotionality to overpower and violate her if he chose to. He tells himself to keep that in mind for eventual later use even if the prospect of it appalls him.

He regards the other one – loose black hair and not nearly as much make-up as the other one, doesn´t need to bribe with physical appearance, relies more on her intelligence – with a look similar to her own. For a short moment he sees understanding and a good portion of satisfaction in her brown eyes and that almost makes him smirk.

 

 

They ask for his name, family, date of birth and many other things they certainly spent hours on debating whether they´re important enough or not. He doesn´t care. For all he knows they could ask for the color of his underwear and his answer, for the thirty-sixth time, would still remain:

“I do not know.”

 

 

The lukewarm shower he is asked to take afterwards feels more like a reward than a punishment for his unintentional refusal to cooperate and for about five minutes all he does is stand under the strangely looking showerhead just feeling the sweat and grime being washed off of his body.

Fortunately the towel looks clean enough not to demand a new one and he does not try to think of the amount of people who might have used it before him. From the few glimpses he was able to catch while being escorted to this bathroom these people have to fight much bigger problems than dirty towels or bathtubs.

Also, he pointedly does not look into the mirror´s reflection while brushing his teeth.

 

 

‘Tchujoy’ is what they call him behind his back in shushed whispers when he enters what has to be a common room. He is not sure what it means just knows it has to be something East European.

However, he is certain it is nothing pleasurable. After all he is an intruder unwilling to reveal any information about himself and yet occupying one of their beds and eating from their plates. He is taking their hospitality for granted and does not offer anything in return.

‘Foreigner…Stranger’ one of the guards mutters when he´s sipping from a cup of tea and this time he cannot hide the tiny smile on his lips.

 

 

After more than three months of wandering around in silence and observing life within the basement, he finally finds himself on a cot in one of the medical rooms watching the only person he chose to place some amount of trust in drawing his blood.

He sees the questions in her brown eyes when she pushes the needle into his skin, knows her curiosity has to be immense when the first vial is slowly filled with dark red liquid but she keeps quiet waiting for him to break the silence and he is grateful for that.

 

 

To be honest the experiment intrigues him.

Enhancing physical appearance as well as intelligence with just a simple injection is as much a genius invention as is it madness and something in that mixture thrills him and dares him to try it even if the price for it could be his life.

They both know he has nobody left to live for.

 

 

The day his blood samples prove to be compatible and he himself willing enough to participate in the experiment is the day the leader of this so-called rebel group hands him a black coat and a light blue scarf with a broad smile.

The man still calls him tchujoy. Probably out of habit and idleness to find a new, more fitting name.

He does not mind it, never has, and accepts the items with a small nod of gratitude, his face not betraying anything when he is told these are the only things they had saved from the day he was found.


End file.
